


Dissolution

by ai_firestarter



Category: Lovely Little Losers
Genre: Alcohol, Fist Fights, Homophobia, M/M, Oral Sex, Post-Canon, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-15
Updated: 2015-12-15
Packaged: 2018-05-06 22:03:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5432405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ai_firestarter/pseuds/ai_firestarter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just because it's true love doesn't mean it lasts. (Or, Peter Donaldson takes the express train back to the dark place.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dissolution

**Author's Note:**

> I've wanted to write dark-place!Peter since early on in LoLiLo (probably around TAPAS?), but I was always nervous to. After all, he's one of my favourite webseries characters and I haven't written much in the NMTD-verse. Then FEATHERS aired, and 'that moment' happened between Peter and Vegan Fred Boyet, and Tumblr encouraged me to see where exploring that moment might take me.
> 
> Spoiler alert: it took me to porn. Sorry.

Peter Donaldson has no intention of murdering Fred Boyet.

In public, at least.

As the next shot burns its way down his throat, he holds onto that. At least, he can tell himself, he has no intention to murdering Fred Boyet.

In public.

For now.

He fumbles for his phone, tapping into his email inbox through the tequila haze. There's a YouTube notification, another 'Beadicktion' video from... somewhere. Arizona. New York. Maybe Canada this time. Peter mulls whether he wants to try and distract himself from his own pool of moodiness by drinking down his friends' joy, but he knows that it'll just taste bitter tonight. 

So he deletes the email and has another drink.

He wonders where they are. Whether they're having sex in that enormous kitchen, hurriedly shoving the ingredients for vegan brownies off the counter all over the floor. No, not Bea and Ben. Not them. Peter wonders if Fred Boyet is kissing his beautiful ex-boyfriend (god that still feels wrong on a cosmic level, but easier than thinking the delicate young man's name, remembering the feel of his small frame under Peter's fingers, no that's far too much for tonight espcially as he's promised himself no murdering Fred Fucking Boyet). He wonders if Fred Boyet knows the place at the back of his neck where he likes to be kissed.

He wonders if they hold hands.

He wonders if Boyet's hand fits better than any other guy's ever could.

He rubs his own hands together, suppresses a wave of nausea, and throws back another shot.

He wonders if his ex-boyfriend (again, that sounds like fiction, what the actual fuck) writes songs for Fred Fucking Boyet. Whether he posts them on the Internet or just sings them when they're alone. Lying in Boyet's arms, strumming one of his thousand fucking ukuleles and singing about veganism and coffee and whatever else Vegan Fred Fucking Boyet is into. 

Peter Donaldson is not an angry person.

He is just drunk and sad.

Or at least, that's what he's telling himself.

He misses the euphoria of his last self-destruction. At least then, he could tell himself he was selfless. Blameless. Keeping himself out of the way so the one he loved could actually be happy. Stumbling around in public in the middle of the night, drunk with a camera, telling the whole fucking world that he was happy. Because in a way - a liver-destroying, flatmate-concerning way - he was. 

He could go for some fucking tapas.

His phone vibrates, jerking him out of his self-indulgent reverie. It's Costa. These days it's always Costa. Bea and Ben are out of the country. Freddie and Kit have their own den of nauseating cuteness, and never have time for anyone else. Jaquie is dating... somebody.

Peter's not sure if Costa is pining after him or just overinvested in their friendship, but tonight he's not really looking for either one of those. He doesn't need to be romanticized or worshiped tonight. He's a little over that.

Peter goes to shove his phone into his pocket, but it slips from his fingers and tumbles across the bar floor. Shit. Peter steels himself to stand and pursue it, but it's not a minute until a herd of douchebros trample all over it.

"Hey! That's my fucking phone!"

Peter stands, swaying a little (okay, he's been drinking hard liquor all night and they never cut anybody off here, so he's surprised he can even form words) as he stalks over to them. The biggest of the lot glances down and sees the phone under his gargantuan heel, winces. "Oh, shit."

Peter kneels to grab his phone, stumbling to his knees in the process. He looks at it. Spiderwebs all across its glass face. Fuck.

"While you're down there, blondie..." Douchebro grins down at him with a self-satisfied smirk. "If I close my eyes I bet I could forget you're not a chick." Peter scowls, but he takes a moment too long to react, and the guy's sausage fingers descend to rustle through his hair. The guy's guffawing like he's telling the world's funniest joke, so maybe he doesn't realise tonight is not the night to fuck with Peter Donaldson.

Peter headbutts the asshole in the balls.

Probably not the best idea when Fuckhead Mountain is surrounded by three beefy henchmen who are all slightly less wasted than Peter.

Needless to say, Peter Donaldson gets the shit kicked out of him. 

It's somewhere between the black eye and the bloody nose that some guy intervenes, putting his body between Peter and his attackers and telling them off in a barely-slurred stream of self-righteous moralism. It's only once the guy, his savior, has dragged him outside and starts wiping off the blood with a wet cloth that Peter realises.

Of course.

It's Fred Fucking Boyet.

Apparently even sanctimonious coffee barons like to get wasted once in a while.

Peter considers taking a swing at the guy, but even as inebriated as he is, he knows that throwing a punch at the guy who just saved your ass is more than a little ungrateful.

Plus that cloth feels really nice.

That doesn't mean he has to be pleasant, though.

"Sh- Sh-- Wolf Sheepdog Boyet. The fuck are you doing around us unclean alcohol lovers?" Peter slurs with a smirk, and Boyet's already unhappy scowl tightens.

A long beat, as his unwelcome companion gathers his words. Boyet's eyes fix on something in the distance. Then: "Did you know that, because of you, the Internet hates me?"

Peter did not know that.

"Did you know that your," Fucking Fred Boyet gulps down some apparent anger, "'Pedrazar' shippers, as Meg calls them, have apparently figured out how to use Yelp?"

Oh shit.

"Yeah, Peter. Oh shit." Boyet gives him an ugly smile. Peter quickly realizes Boyet may hate him as much as he hates Boyet. Fair game.

"Where's.. Where's your boy?" Peter, still unable to say the name. Or think it.

"I don't have-- Oh, you mean Balthazar." Boyet scowls.

"Break the kitchen yet?" Peter grins nastily. 

"What does that even mean?"

"I dunno. He with you? Because I'm not, uh, no, no way..."

"We're--" Boyet winces. "We're not together any more. I'm not sure we ever were."

Peter blinks. Oh.

"Is there someone you can call? To get you home? You're... Frankly I'm not sure you'll survive the night unsupervised. Before we even take into account your possible concussion."

Peter shrugs. Wordlessly gestures with what's left of his phone. Boyet sighs deeply.

"Fine. Who can I call--"

"It's fine, I'll walk--"

"--probably right into the busy street, jesus Peter. Can you even stand?"

"Probly."

"Right. I'm calling a cab, I'm taking you to your flat, and... I guess I'll keep an eye on you."

"I don't. Need. Your help."

"Fine. If you can take ten steps without falling over? I will leave you be."

He manages eight.

Fuck.

===

He lives alone.

It's a nice little flat. It was nicer when Balth lived there, when Peter had a reason to keep things tidy and to make real food rather than ordering an entire pizza and eating half a slice a day until it turned green. It's still a nice place, and Fred Boyet's judgmental scowl can fuck itself right up the ass.

Okay. Maybe he hasn't cleaned in a while. Or done the dishes. Or laundry. Maybe it's an unholy mess.

Still. Fucking Boyet.

"You're doing well, aren't you?" Boyet doesn't even try to keep the judgement out of his voice as he looks over Peter's paltry domain. It's no Boyet Estate, that's for sure.

"Flour's in the kitchen," Peter slurs.

"Ha."

"I'm home, you can fuck off now."

"Right, and have the Internet pillory me when you drunkenly slip in the shower and bash your head off your toilet. No thank you."

"Shu'up, Sheepdog."

Boyet grabs Peter by the back of his shirt collar and drags him into the bathroom. 

"You need to sober up. That means shower. Come on."

Peter lets himself be dragged along into the bathroom. Fred looks him over.

"Do you have a clothes dryer?"

"Yeh. Why?"

And Boyet tips him into the shower, fully clothed, and yanks the hot water on.

Peter's brain flares to life, even as Boyet moderates the temperature. "FUCKING hell, Boyet."

Even if, Peter has to admit, the self-satisfied little smirk Boyet wears at Peter's expense is kind of hot, in a shitty kind of way.

Boyet exits, yelling back to him asking where he keeps his dry things. Peter pulls himself to his feet, barking out a response, then laughing as he rips off his wet shirt. 

He's had a terrible idea, and he's made a point of following those instincts lately.

Boyet returns, barely paying attention - until his eyes meet Peter's bare chest. "Uh. What are you doing?"

Now it's Peter's turn to smirk. He steps forward - he is remarkably sober now, backing the mildly confused Fred Boyet up against the bathroom door with intent in his eyes. "I'm a fuckup, Sheepdog. What do you think I'm doing?"

And then he lunges forward and kisses him.

He has to wonder, as Fred Fucking Boyet kisses him back like he's got the cure for cancer somewhere in the vicinity of his tonsils, how long Fred's been eyeing him with more than frustrated distaste. But instead of thinking - he's sick of that and it never does him any good anyway - he lets one hand snake down, rattling at Boyet's zipper.

Boyet pauses, suddenly self-conscious. "I don't usually, uh. Not like this."

"Do you want to?"

Boyet is silent, clearly hoping Peter will decide for him, will let him keep his dignity as 'someone who wouldn't do this'. But Peter is still a good guy, and now that the question of consent's been put on the table, he's not moving an inch until Boyet says otherwise.

The tips of his fingers brushing against the rich kid's pants, the tightness there pressing enticingly against them. But he stops. Waits.

Boyet nods, jerking and awkward but genuine. It's small but it's enough.

And so Peter's hands continue their careful work in earnest. Why are they this complicated? They're just pants.

"I hate your pants, Sheepdog," Peter growls against Boyet's neck, and he laughs as Peter's hands finally wrench the fly open and drag them down to Boyet's knees. One hand down into Boyet's boxers, the other gripping his hip in a way that's bound to leave a bruise, as he presses his entire body against the other man's, shoving him against the door in a way that sends sensation all through Peter's alcohol-soaked nerves. Boyet's lips shudder against Peter's neck as Peter grips and jerks him, the coffee lover gasping against the purplish skin where he's still bruised from the barfight.

Peter gives Boyet's earlobe a small bite. Boyet barks, surprised. Then, "Do that again. Please."

Peter Donaldson knows when to listen. At least when it comes to coffee barons who are at once fucking know-it-alls and yet somehow enticingly naive. Boyet moans as Peter's hand kneads away down below.

Peter - drunk, horny, angry Peter whose idea of perfect revenge is to have his ex-boyfriend's rebound dissolving in his fingers - smirks as he presses his lips to Boyet's for another hungry kiss.

"Now let me show you why some of us aren't vegan."

Boyet blinks - until Peter sinks down to his knees. And the surprised little hiccup of a gasp just makes Peter want this even more. Gripping Boyet's hips and holding him firmly against the door, Peter gives him a nice, slow lick, savouring the whimpering from above. 

"Already close, Sheepdog?"

"Shut up."

Yeah, this is gonna be fun.

Peter works his tongue against his cheeks, getting his mouth nice and wet, before slipping his lips around Boyet. Part of him wants to savour the moment, but most of him wants to rattle Boyet to pieces, so he goes at it full-speed, as Boyet's yelps turn to throaty, needy groans above him.

Boyet's hands grip his hair - a little too tight, which tonight is exactly his speed - as Peter ducks down once, twice, three times more, taking the whole thing down his throat like a champ. And then Boyet finishes with a shout, his grip in Peter's hair relaxing to almost a caress.

Peter stands, completely sober now, and smirks at the sight of Boyet, eyes closed, leaning back against the door. Slipping in close to him, Peter presses his lips to Boyet's for one ironically chaste kiss.

"That was fun," Boyet murmurs against Peter's lips, and he has to agree. As he drags Boyet back to his bed so the two can collapse, he thinks, maybe they could do this again.

"Your apartment is still a dump, Donaldson."

"Shut up, Sheepdog."

"Make me." Boyet's eyes open, sharp as ever, and Peter smiles.

Maybe sooner than he thought.


End file.
